


To Touch a Heart

by KatsudonLink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Drugging, Graphic Description, In which Sherlock is oddly sentimental, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacles, bottom!John, dark!Sherlock, ish, tentacle!lock, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatsudonLink/pseuds/KatsudonLink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of events that lead to Sherlock emotionally, mentally and physically wrapping John with his tentacles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dulcette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulcette/gifts).



> This work is gifted to my lovely person who is the first at everything including my heart (doki doki doki).
> 
> If at any time you helped me with writing this, thank you so much!

John had taken a liking to using the tube ever since he had regained his ability to walk without his cane. Before that, whenever the doctor strolled around London with his walking stick, he just felt...well, old. Given that John wasn't actually _that_ old (he looked good for his age, thank you), he knew that most people who had no information about him whatsoever and who's eyes didn't leave him as he limped near them tended to think that it was an injury. Perhaps someone who knew his profession thought of it as irony, which John never quite understood because doctors _were_ human at the end and they could get cancer and die just as easily as the next bloke. Studying medicine didn't exactly provide you a better immune system. 

And then there were some, usually women he tried to miserably pick up, who asked if he was like 'that _House MD bloke'_ because he had a cane and he was a doctor. That had stopped being funny and became annoying faster than John had made the connection between the sound of the gun and the pain blossoming in his left shoulder whilst he had left the tent to help carry a soldier. At the end, the pain had gone as fast as it came, only to come back and haunt him later as a souvenir, bullets be damned.

John H. Watson;

Favorite pastime: Drinking tea while reading the funnies.

Favorite smell: Cinnamon, peppermint and lavender.

Favorite sound: Water boiling in the kettle.

Guilty pleasure: Wars.

He especially hated thinking of the time he had _just_ gotten back. His hand shook so much from the prompt change (not to mention he never had to use a cane before, so that too needed getting used to), he very nearly tripped everyone that was in close proximity. Not only was that embarrassing solely because of the looks and tuts he got, it was also embarrassing because he was a doctor possibly causing injuries as he limped. Of course, being British, no one actually said anything to him but talked to whoever they were there with, if any. It wasn't like John couldn't hear them. 

Getting rid of the cane had felt very nearly as good as getting ridding of the pain and the shaking.

Now in the tube, seated in one of those oddly patterned blue seats, John was reading _the Sun_ , from the lack of a better reading material (Sherlock had spoiled the book he had been reading because John threw away a body part that was attracting a large quantity of flies). Christ, it was horrible. He knew he was being judged by the people around him for reading such a shite tabloid, but he couldn't deny it was incredibly fun to do so. There were so many things to laugh at. It was an addiction, like watching Jeremy Kyle.

After an awful day at work, John had decided to treat himself with a Chocolate Croissant (£1.40) along with a cup of tea (£1.50) from the Pret A Manger that was on his way from work to the tube. When he had returned from Afghanistan, he could never afford buying anything from Pret A Manger. Instead of spending £2.90 on a cuppa tea and a pastry, he could get a 500g lamb and mutton mince for just £2.50, and back then eating meat that night (not that he ate much, but he still had the urge to buy food) was more important. At least now he was calmer after a day filled with patients who thought the internet was a good idea to diagnose themselves and came in just for prescriptions. John had had to spent twenty minutes explaining to a thirty year old blonde woman with very expensive looking Harrods sweatpants who claimed to have gotten mercury poisoning from eating sushi every day for five days that it was very nearly _impossible_ to get mercury poisoning from eating sushi everyday for _years_. Sometimes he wondered if that's how Sherlock felt with other people.

**_"Go to our website, 'www.sun.co.uk' and enter to win One Direction star Zayn Malik's unwashed T-Shirt!_ **

**_We know you lot are obsessed with the 1D boys, so we're giving you the chance to win the shirts off their very own backs!_ _"_ **

Christ, it was insane what people demanded and believed these days. John couldn't imagine someone actually paying money to buy a sweaty shirt that 'belonged to a member of One Direction'. 

John then proceeded to read about a boy who had a snail growing out of his knee ( _what?_ ) and looked at pictures of _" **12 Completely Stupid People Who Got Themselves Stuck in Stuff** "_

Closing the paper to look at the front page, John put the carton of tea between his legs to use both hands. When he read tabloids he always left the first page where the depressing news were to the last. It was the shitty thing about being an adult, having to also keep up with depressing news. Tabloids were always an escape when he wanted to forget about what troubled him like the fact that Sarah had been talking about how much the rent of the clinic had been troubling her, and that she may have to talk about relocating (which may also result in John being 'let go' from his job, but that was an undertone) and how Mary was seemingly getting closer with his arsehole of an ex-boyfriend who had suddenly turned into an apologetic puppy just when John had started making moves on her. John gazed on the first page, the picture of soldiers immediately catching his eyes.

_** "Hel and Back ** _

_**Sun sees Our Boys quit HQ on Afghan front line** _

_**MASSIVE operation — dubbed the ‘most complex’ ever undertaken by a war-fighting HQ — as Our Boys leave their base in Helmand’s capital, Lashkar Gah, and move 20 miles away to Camp Bastion. It is part of the phased withdrawal of troops and base closures as Afghan forces take over."** _

The next thing he knew, John had found the cup on the floor, the warm liquid spreading over the floor of the tube along with his croissant, which had been previously sitting on his foreleg. Now all John was left with was shock, embarrassment, no tea, a soggy croissant and chocolate smudged trousers. He got off the next station and decided to walk the rest of the way, not knowing what exactly he was feeling. _Invaded_ , was a good word. He felt invaded. 

When he had gotten a recordable amount of mileage, he felt his phone vibrate.

* * *

**Mon**

**Sarah                                                                       5: 53**

**The owner hiked up the rent again. Tried to talk to the prick, can't pay the rent this month. Don't come into work tomorrow.**

* * *

Oh, that was just fucking great. Had he just been sacked through a bleeding text message? All right, calm down Watson. Maybe it was just temporary, at least John wanted to believe that. She had said don't come into work 'tomorrow'. Did that mean John was to show up the next day? Perhaps it was just a one day thing where Sarah would talk to the owner of the building again and discuss a few matters. John felt that he was in too much of a shit mood now to think about life decisions like that right now. If he needed a job, he'd look for one tomorrow. For now, he just wanted to get a few things from Tesco and go home to get some dinner.

The list Sherlock had given him this morning was as follows:

\- Milk (preferably goat)

\- Baguette (half and stale)

\- Two dozen cherries (just the pits)

\- A Furby

\- Baby food (Banana Custard, Apple and Banana Swirl, two jars each)

\- Ten light bulbs, small (just the base)

\- A BBQ fork

\- One olive

\- HP sauce 

\- Three pickled onions (not jars, pieces)

At times Sherlock gave him someone else's credit card to pay for whatever he wanted, at other times John had to use his own but money hadn’t been so much of a problem ever since they’ve moved in together.

It wasn’t that John didn’t like shopping. He just feared for his life, and Sherlock’s, and Mrs. Hudson’s (depending on how big the explosion is). John was especially annoyed with things that gotten thrown out because Sherlock requested unobtainable quantities like two (grains of rice), five (electric toothbrushes and batteries for them) or two hundred and three (after insisting for weeks, he had gotten bored at the ninety second Cadbury Creme Egg, whatever he was doing with them). Not to mention some of those things were rather expensive even without an insane amount. A Furby, John had later found out, was forty fucking pounds according to Tesco's website, which John had used to see what the hell a Furby was -he would be lying if he said he hadn't considered that Sherlock had a secret furry fetish for one second- and if it was suitable for children under the age of 8 , which seemed to apply to Sherlock just as good. At least eight year olds and he both had a thing for small kitchen appliances. Further research had revealed Furby to be an incredibly creepy toy that John would have refused to buy his children.

He breathed out, running a hand in his hair before stopping in front of Tesco, frowning as he saw that it was closed. He had been rather looking forward to getting some meat for tonight because just because Sherlock abused the kitchen, didn't mean he couldn't cook anything, it was just wiser not to. Anger rising in him, he wanted to kick the door open. Rubbing his eyes, he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket again.

* * *

**Mon**

**Mary5: 56**

**Thnx for the tip John, you were right! Mark and I are back together now. You’re a great bloke. xx**

* * *

_Oh fuck me._

John had no idea what he was right about but God, he just wanted to go home and have a lie down. It was all right, shite days happened and they passed too. As an adult, John had to know that. But right now the way to 221B had never felt longer.

Seeing the familiar red tent of Speedy’s felt like a bloody miracle. Relief was like a reassuring arm around him as his muscles, which John had just realized were previously tense, relaxed at the feeling of being at home. John had no recollection of when Sherlock and he started calling 221B _home_ instead of ‘the flat’ or something similar to that. At some point, somewhere along the way, 221B had become the fixed point in his life. John couldn’t have ever imagined living in the same street at the bloody Beatles Store, which some people travelled across the globe to come see. He could never imagine having the bloody tube be literally on and a half minutes from where he lived. Still in a shite mood, John had noticed just as he was entering that he had forgotten to get takeaway. Breathing out loudly from his nose, head bowed down, eyes closed, he decided that the only reason he’d go to the Chinese place right now would be if his Hippocratic Oath left him no choice.

John relished the noise his shoes made on the hard floor and the small squeaks that could be heard from a few of the seventeen steps that lead up to his flat. He hesitated briefly before he opened the door. No smell of smoke. He touched the handle, it wasn’t warm. No alarming sounds came from inside. Good, that meant the flat was probably intact. Another day finished with survival. A minute later he was inside, coat hanging from a wooden peg and shoes underneath. He really had to change, the end of his trousers were still a little damp from the splashed tea, not to mention he had a chocolate stain on his left leg. He’d have to talk to Mrs. Hudson about that, he had no idea how to remove one of those from the fabric of his trousers. Previous cranberry related accidents had resulted in him having to buy new trousers prior access to Mrs. Hudson’s vast knowledge of stain removal and garment care.

Walking to the sitting room to try to clean up a little before taking a shower and changing, John saw the obvious disappointment on Sherlock’s face upon seeing that he had no grocery bags in his hands.

“It was closed Sherlock.” He breathed out.

“Obviously.” The other spoke from his throne of science, as John liked to call it, which was just a stool in front of a microscope.

“Honestly John, I would have thought a man with your intelligence wouldn’t believe something he read in the Sun.” The words exited the genius’ mouth in a low voice. If John had to describe it, he’d say it is the colour nightfall. Wayward, wicked and wonderful.

“Sh-“

“There is ink on your right index finger, red. That shade of red is only used in printed on The Sun.  You were reading it in the tube, you dropped your tea because you saw something that shocked or upset you, possibly both. That smudge on your trousers is most definitely chocolate, so you dropped your pastry as well, most probably a croissant. The tea got on your shoes, which you tried to wipe off with your fingers. That got them wet in the process and then you held the newspaper, resulting in the ink getting on your fingers.  I thought you quit reading tabloids.”

John blinked, and then shook his head, taking the empty mug he had left on the coffee table that morning and placed it inside the sink in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. The ‘brilliant’ was an undertone. “This kitchen is a mess and I thought you quit smoking.” He went on, looking over at the crystal ashtray that had been residing next to the empty mug, the crystal ashtray that was not there when he left in the morning. Then he wet a rag and started wiping the portion of the counter that wasn’t littered with experiments, a small portion.

“I haven’t been smoking, you’ve been reading tabloids.” Sherlock looked into his microscope again, ignoring the comment about the kitchen. On a red plate on the counter was an eye balanced on top of a small a light bulb base. John didn’t even want to ask.

The contains of the petri dishes would continue to react with itself for an indefinite amount of time, Sherlock had to check them in periods of two hours, which was rather dull but science was also patience sometimes, as life was. Sherlock didn’t have patience for either but he simply tolerated patience for science better. He got up from his stool, following his flatmate into the sitting room. He recognized that John looked tired but he’d get over it. He always did. John had a very precise recharging routine. He’d try to clean the flat but wouldn’t accomplish much. He’d look at his emails and check his blog. After, he’d have tea, eat dinner –encourage Sherlock to join-, take a shower, and then bring the second cup of tea to his room with him along with his laptop. He’d browse pornography for twelve to twenty three minutes, masturbate and go to sleep. Sherlock understood that it gave him a sense of having his life together, which John required. Even Sherlock’s chaos, (mental, emotional, physical) was an organized one.

The doctor sat in front of his laptop and lifted the lid. It was turned on and logged in already. He sighed. Sherlock picked up his violin and looked at the screen while placing the instrument under his chin delicately.

“Pectin. I must admit it was a good try John. Going for the obvious so I won’t suspect it. Although you may want to go off the fruit preserves theme.” He placed the bow on the strings, not sliding them just yet, taking a second to preserve himself and gather everything so he can start to play.

“Of course.” John muttered, lowering his eyebrows. “What was I thinking.”

Ten minutes of research later, in which Sherlock had played a melody he never heard before but reminded him of the rain, John confirmed that what he saw in The Sun was true. It was in The Telegraph, BBC News, Sky News, it was all over the place actually.

_**“By the end of next year, the UK's combat operations in Afghanistan will be over."** _

_**Nearly 8,000 British troops are still serving in Afghanistan, around half of them based at Camp Bastion. All combat operations are due to finish by the end of 2014, with responsibility being transferred to Afghan forces.”** _

“John!”

John raised his head and looked over at the middle of the sitting room, where the voice was coming from. “Oh good, now that you’ve seemingly regained the ability of hearing,” the pacing man said, the violin no longer in his hand but placed in it’s stand “you can help me pluck the feathers of the chicken.”

“Chicken.”

Sometimes John thought that Sherlock just spent his time trying to make John feel as bewildered as he could at what he was doing when the other was at work.

The routine could go to hell.

Somehow Sherlock had acquired a chicken that looked like it has been dead for an hour or so and John definitely did not study med to help the only consulting detective in the world pluck the feathers of a chicken that he no idea how Sherlock even got. It ended up with Sherlock mostly watching John pluck the feathers then made him watch as he very steadily and precisely cut off the beak, separating the tissue with a knife that John was no longer thinking of using no matter how much it was cleaned. It was remarkable to see Sherlock work. All and all, the man knew what he was doing when it came to his experiments. John almost even considered telling Sherlock that he would have been a great surgeon. It didn’t peck in the back of his mind how Sherlock had gotten these skills.

After the beak was removed Sherlock ended up trying to throw the whole plucked and beakless chicken away almost seeming too eager to do so, as if he just wanted to piss John off by being wasteful. Well. Bloody git just wanted the feathers and the beak, so John decided that he could take the liberty of at least trying to make it into dinner with a little effort.

“It still looks edible. I don’t think we have anything in the fridge and I’m not going out to get takeaway. Are you going to help me?”

Sherlock seemed to still. “What time is it?”

John checked his watch. “Quarter past eight.”

Without saying anything, Sherlock walked to the petri dishes laid on the other side of the counter.

Right. John hadn’t exactly been expecting him to help anyhow so he wasn't exactly dissapointed. 

He was now used to all of this anyway. He was becoming _domestic_ , Harry would have laughed. 

A few minutes later, despite never having tried to debone a chicken before, John was making good progress. Though in the process, he noticed he previously had no idea how much blood a chicken contains. Sherlock just ended up glancing over at him from time to time while examining his precious petri dishes, telling him to be careful not to splash any blood on the glass slides laid out next to his microscope as part of another experiment and he still didn't get angry.

John was definitely no cook so he tried to whip up something, also using a pack of frozen vegetables (oddly still not past it’s expiration date) he found in the fridge next to a bag of eyes and he was rather proud of the outcome.

Upon questioning, Sherlock insisted he didn’t just ‘find’ the chicken and John was too tired to knock the honest answer out of him. After everything, Sherlock ended up having a small piece of chicken and ate all of his steamed baby carrots too, so all was assumed as fine.

He’d probably dream of Sherlock finding a chicken in an alley way and chasing it along the streets of London that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the things from The Sun are real. Yes, all the things about Zayn Malik, Afghanistan and even "12 Completely Stupid People Who Got Themselves Stuck in Stuff".


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter is "Pursuit" from the Season 1 soundtrack and the start of "One More Miracle" from the Season 2 soundtrack for the bits about John's thoughts on war.

They were running. A case had bloomed at four in the morning, causing Sherlock to burst into the army doctor’s room with glee, looking like a cat that was just shown a mouse to catch. Sherlock had already been dressed. John didn’t exactly notice how quickly he got dressed but when they were exiting the house in a hurry, one of his shoes were untied and a button of his shirt was in the wrong hole. Now, nearly twenty hours later, Sherlock and he were running from Knightsbridge to Piccadilly, chasing a screaming little girl with pigtails and a pink dress who was a lot more agile than John had thought her to be when he first saw her.

_“It’s her, John. She’s got the external hard drive in her stuffed dog!”_

Case voice. Glorious.

Rough, demanding, making John’s whole body jerk forward _to do something_. It almost automatically started moving his feet for him.

It was insane. John could never help the grin that spread to his face when they started running in a case. It felt like as they run, they pulled a thread of the case, unraveling it like a knitted scarf. It felt like home. John felt that he belonged to the moment. And as they ran, he didn’t think of the fact that he most likely lost his job, neither did he of the fact that Mary was unavailable once again. They were at the climax of the case now. The chase. The pursuit. Where something _so amazingly mental_ happened that John would forget all about his personal existence and become a part of something much bigger than him. Where his genius of a flatmate proposed a theory that would make one thing he was off his rocker. The Russian mob hiding an external hard drive containing information that could very easily corrupt them in the right hands in the stuffed dog of a seemingly six-year-old girl.

And even if Sherlock hadn’t given him any explanation at all as to why he should, John still would’ve followed. That was what made him _John Watson_.

Well, he did owe that to Sherlock after he pulled him out of whatever he had been in when he came back. 

At these points, John would again notice how Sherlock wasn’t the one that was batty, but the ones they were following were. He knew all about brain washing. Too much, some would say.

Finally, as the girl tried to cross the street a silver car cut her way. She leaped back, eyes wide, as if she had never seen a car before. Taking this as an advantage, Sherlock leaped forward and snatched the middle of the back of her dress. Of course, the girl screamed, so John quickly stood in front of her and held the hand that was trying to scratch his friend’s eyes out. Quickly, he took the dog while Sherlock ceased both her hands on her back with one large hand, and pressed his leather-covered hand on top of her tiny mouth that kept producing screams that clawed at the inside of John’s mind.

Sherlock clenched his teeth, looking down at the small creature and tightened his grip unexpectedly. His hand was making up to circle his fingers around her neck because she was still screaming and trashing and there was no logical way of stopping her. That’s why Sherlock hated children sometimes. As much as they absorbed information like a sponge, they weren’t mature enough to know when to stop acting like…well…children. They were too little to know of empathy for their elders. For a second, Sherlock thought he was going to snap her neck, but then he thought, that would probably make John angry.

John, now holding the stuffed dog, turned it over and noticed the white stitching on the back. These weren’t ordinary stitches. They were precise. His gaze flickered to the girl. She looked so violent, wild, trying to fight her way out of Sherlock’s grip and even though John felt sorry for her, right now she looked more like a dog with rabies than a helpless little girl. He knew she was trying to bite the inside of Sherlock’s palm, which wasn’t doing anything since fortunately the leather of his gloves was thick.

Sometimes, John worried about his mind. After the war, as if he didn’t have enough of seeing everything that was _wrong_  with people, the scum of the earth, the corrupt, the twisted, the fucked up, the absolutely and utterly sick. He had fought those. Hell, he had patched up those and sent them home to Britain to be heroes, never to forget what they went through. Because if they weren’t already fucked up when they arrived, they lost everything somewhere in between waking up to people begging for them to kill them and having to put a gun between a little girls beautiful, scared, unexpectant and innocent eyes and shoot. So, the husbands and fathers, doctors and lawyers, the common men that went to war came back with an acquired taste for the putrid and rotten. That was the worst part about the war. The addiction to see humanity at its knees. Not even the purest could escape the hand that slid into your gut and /squeezed/ every living thing out of you, then threw you away like a corpse that only physically lived and lived to pull others down with them because of what they saw. In the state of war, anything could happen. John could easily recall the air in the tent when he was patching up a twenty something soldier who looked at him with such horror, such fright, that he felt his hand shake. Neither him, nor the two soldiers who had carried him inside had spoken while John treated, through the muffled screams that weren’t quite getting out of the young man’s chest, a wound that you didn’t have to be a doctor to understand was a bite mark which had successfully separated a chunk of flesh. Before the war, John thought that men simply didn’t cry easily. Not that he saw anyone cry during the war. The soldiers wanted to cry so hard that they couldn’t.

War is an awful thing. Not just because people die. Oh, the people who had died are lucky. War would leave its victims with the greatest handicap of them all, the fact that they had to live through it to be able to look back upon it. And coincidentally, being almost exactly the opposite, and perhaps the worst of it all, it had left John H. Watson with the need of its presence.

And not everyone had a genius madman they lived with who took them out to see _more_ when they wanted to see more. In that way, the moment John had heard the man spoke he had felt him seep inside and wrap around him in a pleasent for of way that he allowed. He grew on him. Sherlock was definitely an acquired taste. He had first felt it thighten, the bond they created, when Sherlock had asked him if he wanted to see _more_. In a way, it was as if they were made for each other.    

And in moments like this, where John could see pure evil even in a little girl and had to face the reality of it not being ‘evil’ bust just a state of mind, he wanted to weep because it was horrid and beautiful, but he knew Sherlock thought so too.

John’s eyes flickered from the girl who was almost growling back down to the stuffed dog at last, trying to shake his thoughts off so he could help Sherlock with the case.

“These stitching were almost definitely made by someone with medical training, Sherlock.” John informed him before pulling at the sides that were stitched together, opening the stuffed dog, pushing his hand inside the cotton filled toy only to, of course, find the external hard drive inside. He could almost see the clogs in Sherlock’s mind turning with the new information. He breathed out at the cold night, seeing his breath in the air. The rawness of London weather at night was rather refreshing tonight. The muscles in his calf ached from not being able to breath as quickly as he spent his oxygen supply.

The DI’s and a few other police cars eventually made their way to the spot, where Sherlock was tired of holding the girl who hadn’t been tired of trying to escape and scream. John was glad that the girl was placed into a police car before Sherlock started to explain everything he could deduce to DI Lestrade with great gusto.

“The girl is the daughter of someone from the specific group we’ve been looking for, obviously. He’s not necessarily important but important enough to be let in some kinds of information, I’d say he doesn’t even know he isn’t let in on everything.” Sherlock met his hands on his back. 

“The man was threatened with the death of his extended family if he didn’t accept to give his daughter away. Basic. There are doctors involved. Male. In his late thirties. Not Russian and possibly being held captive. Now that’s settled, on to more interesting things.” Sherlock’s gaze found the girl that was looking straight at him. It was a chilling sight, but Sherlock seemed unaffected. “Look at her. Not flexing her fingers, baring her teeth.” He narrowed his eyes as he saw the child rubbing her cheek to the glass.

“What do you see John?”

John lifted his eyebrows, then lowered them, looking at the girl as he cleared his throat. “Uhm, right. Ah, well. She is agitated. Abnormal behavior. She seems to be unable to keep saliva in her mouth. It almost looks like…”

“It almost looks like-”

“Rabies?”

There was a hint of a smirk on Sherlock’s face for a split second. “She doesn’t have rabies. No paralysis, no confusion, no terror, no anxiety. Look, John. You’re not _looking_.”

John opened then closed his mouth. “She-…no…”

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t have rabies, she’s acting like a dog.” The doctor managed to let out. Once he was done speaking the expression on his face was as of someone’s who as forced to do something bad.

The expression that passed Sherlock’s face quickly, meanwhile, was of one that was pure pleasure. He turned to the DI, who had been looking at them like they made no sense but obviously trying to catch up.

“Quite done with the wordless conversation?” Lestrade lifted his eyebrows.

“Word-”

“Hush John, in your own time.” Sherlock cut off, continuing. “The girl was placed in a confined space with three- no, four pitbulls. The space was most probably a basement depending on the bone structure of her legs and the state of her teeth. There is definite muscle weakness. I kept my grip loose but she couldn’t escape it.”

“Wh-” The DI seemed baffled.

This time, it was John who cut in. “Calcium only enters the bone with the help of vitamin D. The greatest resource of it is the Sun. The basement probably had no windows. It may be the start of Rickets. Her bones are softening. _Genu valgum_. She’s becoming knock-kneed because her legs can’t support the weight of her body.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched.

“Precisely. Now if you would be so kind to not interrupt me again Lestrade-”

“I wasn’t-”

“Thank you.”

Lestrade sighed.

“She lived with the pitbulls long enough to start adopting characteristics that belong to them. Since she knows how to walk and even run, she was at least one year old when she was placed with them. This means that if no one talked to her during her time with the dogs, she won’t be able to talk. Could even mean she will never be able to talk fluently in any language. She thinks the stuffed dog John is holding is alive; it’s a part of her family. When we started chasing her, she thought we were to kill it. That’s why she ran so fast. Her current bad temper could be explained by the excess lactic acid fermentation in her leg muscles. She is hurting quite a lot but can’t make any sense of it.”

The ‘isn’t that just fascinating?’ went unsaid. Sometimes Sherlock’s enthusiasm on these matters frightened John a little. Maybe, at night, when normal people prayed for health, money and love, Sherlock prayed that he could experiment on humans instead of boring old bacteria.

While the detective went on about more details on the mob, John looked down at the toy that was in his hand and breathed out.

“If it isn’t evidence, could you give this back to her?”

Donovan nodded, signaling that he was going to check with Anderson. John pressed his lips together as he looked back at the poor girl who was currently clawing at the windows of the police car from the inside. John Watson was many things but he wasn’t heartless. He was however, exhausted and hungry. He looked at the distance and tried to make out the trees in the Buckingham Palace Gardens, knowing the palace was after them. Odd. That was the place they had gotten the ashtray Sherlock had put out yesterday with no explanation. (John had checked and there was no sign of him smoking). Sherlo-, no he couldn’t have. Sherlock wasn’t psychic. Sometimes John felt like he was just getting paranoid about what Sherlock knew and what he didn’t.

Sherlock stepped next to him with a hint of a smile on his voice. “Tonight could almost be considered a test to your elementary medical knowledge.”

John chuckled, looking at his friend a second later.

“I’m aware that what they’ve done to the girl is quite disturbing.”

“Sherlock, I have been in war. You know you don’t have to worry about me.”

“Do you feel sick?”

John pushed his hands in his pockets. “I’m actually starving.”

Fortunately, Sherlock allowed them to go to an Indian place close by and then have a bit of sleep solely because now they had to wait for the mob to show up and discover that the external hard drive was now at their hands. They had been in the streets for more than twenty hours now, it was 12:00 AM and John was bloody famished. On the way, Sherlock had stood a little closer to him than usual. John had felt the brush of Sherlock’s cape-, erm, coat against him more than usual. They were seated in the Indian place fifteen minutes later.

“Didn’t you have work today?” Sherlock asked while dissecting his samosa with his fork, almost as if he was re-creating a crime scene. Maybe he was.

“Got sacked.”

For an unknown reason, or perhaps a reason their minds both secretly shared, they looked at each other as John raised a forkful or rice to his mouth and burst into giggles before it made it into his mouth. They kept giggling until the owner kicked them out because apparently ‘the curly one’ stole his chicken and ‘paid him’ with the information that his wife was cheating on him with someone from Manchester, and then he promptly left.

At least they didn’t have to pay the bill. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for the things written in Russian.
> 
> Music for this chapter is "Double Room" from the soundtrack.

Sherlock’s eyes raked the two men. Russian. One of them, the shorter one, was wearing a black suit without a tie. His shoes suggested at least one daughter. He went fishing in his spare time, meaning he didn’t live in Russia. No, he was sure this man didn’t live in Russia and he knew English enough to function in an English speaking country. It would be idiotic to ignore the chance that he could be constantly on the go, so often leaving his family alone. This man was of very little worth to the mob itself, that much was clear to Sherlock. Cocaine user, not very frequent. His diet consisted almost completely of meat and potatoes.

The other man, the taller one, had a cut on his face. He was blond and mostly just resembled a stereotypical Russian though Sherlock could tell he wasn’t all Russian. His mother was Italian, or something Mediterranean. He was wearing a grey suit, a gold chain around his neck and sneakers instead of dress shoes. This man spoke just a few words of English, his only usage was through his muscular built. No kids, no wife, a girlfriend who he abused.

John wasn’t exactly sure how they had ended up getting caught. Sherlock was very, incredibly precise with the route he was taking them, assuring John that it was the way out. After a very specific turn though, John had felt arms around him, grasping, curling, pulling. Of course they had grabbed the short one. Sherlock just had a silver pistol trained at him by the short, stocky one. The wind came through the broken window of the seemingly abandoned building. The naked light bulb on the ceiling swayed and stuttered.

The tall one was holding John pressed tightly to his chest, an arm hooked around his neck, ready to cut off his air supply the moment Sherlock did something they didn’t like. Looking down a little, John noticed the jackknife ready to slice the life out of him. Although it was something to pity rather than be envious about, he was calmer than how someone else would’ve been in his place. He at least knew enough to act calm while Sherlock slowly approached the other man with both the short and the tall captors watching closely.

“I’m reaching in my pocket to take out the external hard drive.”

“Что он сказал?” The tall one asked the shorter, not looking impressed.

“жесткий диск.” The short’s answer came out.

The tall one seemed to be satisfied with the answer the shorter one gave him because suddenly the grip on John was looser, he took a deep breath. The shorter one, the pistol in his hand still trained on Sherlock, tilted it to the side and moved it, telling him wordlessly to go ahead. The ever bitter face of a middle aged mob member, as if ‘toughness’ was permanently plastered on his face.

He watched Sherlock intently reach inside his coat and provide an external hard drive that John very clearly remembered tossing into the bin a few weeks ago after spilling tea on it, causing it to no longer work. Hang on. That was not a part of the plan.  If they were caught, Sherlock was supposed to give him the fake one that would corrupt their system, then combat them long enough for them to escape. This would give Russians the illusion that they were trying to kill them and get the hard drive back but were unable to. That was what they had discussed. John stuck the tip of his tongue out, trying not to look stressed out. Not that he didn’t trust Sherlock, but because now he had no idea what was going on.

The short man moved his gun to point at the floor, asking Sherlock wordlessly to put it down so he can take it. Sherlock took a step further, placed it on the floor and then retreated, lifting his hands up in surrender.  When Sherlock did so, the man, keeping his gaze on Sherlock, picked it up and started to inspect it.

The problem was, the external hard drive John had had was blue, large and looked nothing like the one they had found inside the stuffed dog. The short man looked at the taller man and shook his head. There was a nasty smirk on the stocky man’s face before he crossed his heart slowly with his index finger.

The taller one gave him a toothy grin, getting the message, and brought the jackknife up to John’s chest, pressing the tip of it below his left shoulder near his heart. John looked helplessly over at Sherlock, trying not to keep his eyes widened. His breathing was stuttering. ‘Sherlock, do something’, was all he could think of, but Sherlock was static.

John parted his lips, now looking down at the knife pressing against his chest, feeling the coldness despite the shirt. Then the blond man started to press it down to tear the fabric as well as the skin of the doctor. John made a small noise as the man moved it diagonally to imitate what the shorter man did with his finger on his own chest. Pain bloomed in his chest like an old mate that you just like to see because he reminds you of the good ol’ times, when you used to be young and alive.

The second line was less painful, probably because he was now going a little numb with adrenaline, though John could see that the cuts were deep enough that blood started to form little drops and trickle down his chest, his shirt already ruined beyond repair. The tips of his fingers tingled, his toes felt numb. The pained was irritating, the cuts stung but the blond man lowered the knife when he was done with the cross. John was grateful, until he was assured that that really wasn’t all he was getting when the shorter man then pointed the gun at the center of the bloodied cross. It was a target. The cross had been a target. John struggled a little, the grip tightened and he could do less not to panic. He thought of Sherlock, gaze flying to him. Sherlock gave him a look that made John squirm. It wasn’t a reassuring look. It was a look that was unsure. A conflicted one.

“нет” Sherlock spoke quickly after a moment, now looking more like his usual self. He held up a hand in protest. “нет, нет, вот он.” Using the same hand to push into his pocket, Sherlock raised his other hand in surrender. It made the short male cock the gun. When Sherlock’s hand emerged, this time it was holding a hard disk identical to the one they found. John didn’t even know Sherlock spoke Russian, (did he?), but he knew enough to know that he said ‘no’ a few times. Right now, he had bigger problems but at least they were back on track and Sherlock once again looked like the self-assured, smug git that John knew him to be.

The shorter man, pompous, walked towards Sherlock, keeping the gun trained on his friend, nodding once as he opened his palm. It annoyed Sherlock that somehow everyone had heard that he ‘cared’ for John, or could figure it out so easily. When someone wanted something from him, the obvious target was not his life but John’s. Now Sherlock had two lives to protect. It did help that John was highly trained as both a soldier and a doctor when he didn’t look like either, though. Nobody expected much of him. Not anyone who didn’t do their research.

At long last, John caught the glimpse of Sherlock that told him to get ready for combat and half a second later, Sherlock’s fist connected with the man’s jaw with a force he didn’t expect while John elbowed the man behind him, who had just started to be in the process of understanding what’s going on. Sherlock held the wrist of the hand that was holding the gun, then twisted it, hitting it with his other hand. The man howled in pain, the gun dropping to the floor. John held the collar of the blond man and kneed him between the legs, avoiding the stab of the knife that was directed at him at the last second. While the man dropped to the floor, John ran towards Sherlock.

“Sherlock, come on!”

Sherlock, who was still bending the man’s wrist, looked up at John disoriented. John was sure he heard something breaking but that didn’t matter right now, not right now, now they had to run. Sherlock nodded at last and punched the man in the stomach and hearing him let out a pained groan before he started running.

Running. It felt home. _Running_. John felt a little nippy now that his shirt had a little window and blood was trickling down but he didn’t mind. Gunshots were heard but neither of them got hit. When John was looking back to spot them, Sherlock pulled him to another corridor from his arm, making the blogger stumble and hit his head on the wall his back was pushed.

“Ouc-“

Sherlock put his hand on top of John’s mouth to stop him from uttering the word. John’s back remained flush to the wall while their chests pressed against each other. John closed his eyes, his breathing was still rapid and Sherlock’s body _and_ coat covering him was resulting in him feeling extremely hot along with the adrenaline, so hot that he felt that he was sweating now. His heart beat so fast that it actually hurt. His throat felt raw from breathing quickly. The footsteps grew louder, John grew tenser. He didn’t let himself relax until the footsteps were no longer heard. It was a wonder how that trick worked outside of movies.

When Sherlock finally pulled back, his white shirt was also painted with John’s blood. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind at all, as expensive as that shirt probably was. Both of their breaths were fast and despite the height difference, their faces were close. They just looked at each other, neither of them spoke because they couldn't bring themselves to talk. John felt gripped. Like something was wrapping around him and squeezing. Something slid and spiraled and claimed him. Something that pulled him closer to Sherlock. Looking at Sherlock's eyes, he could almost see them shift from green to grey-blue. Something was curling in his chest. Then there was a shatter of something, both of them jerked and the moment was gone. John started figdeting with the end of his coat, feeling strangely empty.

 _Sweet, reliable John who trusted him._  

When he was sure they were safe, John finally spoke.

“Fuck, Sherlock. I didn’t know you were going to pull off another fake one. You have to tell me these things.” He ran both hands on his face. Sherlock didn’t respond but looked down the corridor.

“Did you think it would’ve been suspicious if you gave them the identical one right away?”

Sherlock, not looking at John, nodded, pulling at the lapels of his coat.  “Now they have the illusion of thinking they are smarter than us.”

“Brilliant. And you didn’t tell me because?”

“So you looked surprised and distressed, and they thought that we were clumsy and uncoordinated.”

“Right” John breathed out as he ran a finger down his ruined shirt, casting a glance over at Sherlock’s. “Christ, this is going to take a while to heal, it may even scar.” He leaned back to the wall again. His whole body ached now and it wasn’t unfamiliar. It seemed like every worst-case scenario Sherlock had made them plan for had happened.

“Did… you know they were going to-”

Sherlock started running again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak Russian but Google Translate tries to.  
> If you know Russian and they're wrong, I'd love to fix them.
> 
> Что он сказал? - What did he say?  
> жесткий диск - Hard disk  
> нет, нет, вот он - No, no, here it is.


	4. Chapter 4

Truth be told, John hadn’t even looked for a job yet (yes, apparently he _was_ sacked but the clinic was currently closed), which made him a horrible adult. He just spent the last three days after they’ve solved the case with watching a few episodes of Blackadder Goes Forth on his laptop, catching up on Top Gear, eating unhealthily, masturbating at odd hours and actively preventing Sherlock from trying to do anything too destructive. The marks on his chest were healing and didn't hurt a lot, so life seemed good for a short term. He even ended up watching Jeremy Kyle with Sherlock while munching on some popcorn. Sherlock looked at him, then at the popcorn but refused to eat some. 72 hours after a case and he was moaning about being bored.

The detective had his arms wrapped around his legs, still wearing the same clothes as the day they solved the case. The bloodstain on his shirt had formed a shape of an odd cross and John had to add; it looked rather creepy even for Sherlock. Not that John especially minded, he had seen far worse injuries. It was just a little bloodstain; John had had to treat someone whose clothing got stuck to their skin after being burnt (and that was just the beginning of injuries John had to treat that would make any normal person wince or maybe even sick). Since Sherlock was constantly ignoring John’s demands on him changing his clothes, he spent extra effort on keeping him inside the flat at all times because if he got out the doctor was sure someone would scream. Keeping Sherlock inside, however, was proving to be an easier task than he imagined. Sherlock had a new experiment cooking up and it didn’t look so dangerous for once.

There were boxes and boxes of tea stacked on the kitchen table. Of course, of all the possible combinations of experiments Sherlock could do, one had to involve tea.

Earl Grey, peppermint, English Breakfast, Irish Breakfast, Darjeeling green, Yorkshire, and these were the ones John could remember. There were at least three box of each. So far, it was one of the nicest experiments Sherlock had done. The sitting room and the kitchen smelt faintly of tea and Sherlock was just going to spend this time putting teabags in boiled water. The boiled water part did scare him but Sherlock was thirty one years old. If he could handle hydrochloric acid, he could handle boiling water. The latter spilling would be easier to cure anyway.

But now Sherlock was going to make tea and John had to watch this.

The detective looked down at the teapot he had acquired from Mrs. Hudson. It was porcelain and white with small pink floral decorations on it. What got John’s interest was that it wasn’t a usual teapot. It was as if someone got a teapot, took off the top and instead placed a smaller teapot on top. So, a double teapot, perhaps.

“What’s the top one for?” John asked, lifting his eyebrows.

“This, John, is how real tea is made.” Sherlock replied. “Did you know that teabags were originally meant to be cut open to acquire the tea leaves inside? People used it the wrong way, it caught on.” The longer fingers held a cut open teabag as he spoke. He removed the top of the small teapot and emptied the containings into the shallow water inside.

The solar system was too far fetched, but what teabags were originally intended for wasn’t, apparently.

“There is water in the bottom. The top will provide us with concentrated, condensed tea as it boils with the shallow water and the steam from underneath. When we pour it in a mug, we can then dilute it with the boiled water underneath, in the large pot. Of course we have to use a tea strainer, but it’s not necessary.”

A mug was presented to him, oddly. Granted it tasted…different, but John did drink it out of politeness. It wasn’t bad, just…strange. First of all, it smelt bitter. Maybe he just wasn’t used to tea that was made this way. Upon Sherlock’s insisting though, John had three more cups of tea, all different kind, all made with the same pot then had a nice long piss.

When John left for bed, early, feeling rather tired, Sherlock was going through the third box of Irish Breakfast tea and John was nauseous, all the while coughing from the strong scent of tealeaves everywhere. It wasn’t so pleasant now. His eyelids felt heavy.

Three in the morning. Sherlock was making noises downstairs and unsurprisingly it had woken John up from his feather light sleep. He let out a disgruntled moan and rubbed his face, looking over at the clock on his nightstand. True, he didn’t have to go to work tomorrow (something he felt horrible about and kept ignoring), but he still liked sleeping and he had never been one for sleeping in ever since his soldier days.

The sound of something shattering emitted from downstairs. John put his hand over his face. He didn’t want to get up from his bed. The sheets were so smooth against his skin, just the right temperature. He had to will his eyelids to stay open.

Maybe some tea would do both of them good.

Tea.

Okay, maybe they’d had enough tea for a while.

He wasn’t sure when the last time Sherlock slept was but he couldn’t imagine it to be sensible.

Opening the small lamp on his nightstand, John sat up and pushed his feet into his slippers, letting the duvet bunch up on the bed. He placed both of his palms flat on his bed on either side of his thighs. He looked down at his legs; his limbs didn’t feel like they belonged to him. When he got downstairs, he noticed he had no recollection of actually going downstairs. The way had been like butter under his feet. His slippers were fuzzy. Everything was a little fuzzy.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms, trying to come back to reality.

There Sherlock was, trying to sweep the remnants of a broken mug under the fridge. No, Sherlock _was_ a kid.

The detective looked at him, gaze raking his flatmate, only slightly looking like he had been caught doing something wrong. He was still clad in the same clothes. In reality, Sherlock gave so little thought to his outside. He rarely remembered to shower or do anything that was connected to his physical existence. Those were all second plan. If nothing was happening at that moment, all was thought as well.

However, since the same clothes were there, the stain was also still there. Now it was a very dark red, burgundy in the center, where there was blood dried up on and around buttons. The corners of the cross were a lighter shade and Sherlock hadn’t even said anything when John had asked him to maybe take a shower because dried up blood didn’t smell so good, even compared to the fungi in the sink. Sherlock didn’t mind. He was used to how bodies smelled. How they smelled when they were happy, exhausted, angry and dead. And yes, there were different scents depending on mood, Sherlock had done his research on that.

When John looked at his friend again, he noticed he was sitting in front of his microscope now. The broken mug was forgotten by both of them.

“Sh’lock, y'have to take that thing off.” John half slurred.

“I’m in the middle of a very important stage of my experiment John.”

Sherlock’s voice sounded slightly like it was coming from underwater.

“But the blood-”

“I couldn’t care less about the blood.”

John huffed and walked to the back of the crazy bastard, extending his arms from both sides, starting to unbutton his shirt slowly. All right, that’d seemed like a better idea in his mind but he wasn’t going to stop now. He could feel Sherlock’s body heat radiating to his, Sherlock was lucky to still have body heat, that he completely owed to John.

He briefly wondered if this was the closest they ever came to a hug. On his way to the third button, however, a pair of hands that were gentle but firm ceased his wrists.  

“Hold this.”

There it was again. Nightfall. How the hell did Sherlock even do that voice? Maybe the inside of his throat was covered with velvet. John, without thinking, placed his chin on the detective’s shoulder. Thoughts seemed to bounce off his mind rather than entering.

The fingers made John hold his hands palms up in front of Sherlock’s chest. Then there was movement again and John was holding a petri dish with both hands as Sherlock lowered a micropipette to the petri dish, but there was a sort of clicking noise. Like plastic hitting glass. That was odd, Sherlock’s hand couldn’t be shaking, he was always very precise with these things. Sherlock slowly sucked in the fluid part of the culture with his micropipette before releasing it on a glass slide, no words exchanged were during, no sounds but only breathing elicited. John kept trying to convince himself he was awake. It didn’t _feel_ like he was awake but he _knew_ he was awake. He placed his forehead on the back of the other man’s shoulder, unable to keep his head up any longer. He was warm. He was fuzzy.

Sherlock took the petri dish from his hand and placed it on top of the counter before making a small movement to warn John of his incoming turn. He faced the other once John was able to hold himself up again and looked into his eyes, like he was searching for something. Like John was an experiment. John felt a strong light over his eyes briefly but he couldn’t understand what it was. Sherlock was looking at him again, now like he was a crime scene.

John smiled softly, perhaps dumbly. He liked the attention. Sherlock’s eyes looked like kaleidoscopes. They looked like he could just jump in them and happily drown.

“John, I need to draw your blood.”

The voice stroked his insides but when he registered what he said, it snapped him out of it a little. He lowered his eyebrows. “Wh-...why?”

“My antibodies are not reacting with the chemicals and since we have different blood types, I would like to do the experiment again with your blood.”

John narrowed his eyes, trying to process what Sherlock had just said and trying to decide if that was a legitimate excuse at all but then he decided he heard big words like ‘antibodies’ and ‘reacting’ and that meant something important so he nodded, feeling as if he should be saying something but being unable to. 

For a second he felt like a puppet on strings but the second passed as quickly as it came. 

Sat on the stool, John shivered a little as Sherlock rubbed rubbing alcohol over the back of his elbow with a cotton ball, it felt cold as it evaporated. There was a long piece of cloth tied tightly to his forearm to bring out his veins. The cloth matched the colour of Sherlock’s dressing gown.

“Make a fist.”

John was baffled by how hard it was to keep a fist as it was right now.

Sherlock placed the cotton ball on the counter before getting another cotton ball to dry up the very same place. His index finger gently ran over the thin flesh of the inside of his elbow, trying to find a vein. Sherlock hit the skin with his fingers a few times, just enough for it to start to hurt just a little. The location of the veins were clearer now. During the brief eye contact they made, John decided that Sherlock looked slightly concerned.

“Why don’t we use our thumbs to find someone’s vein?” Sherlock asked.

John opened his mouth, but his head was feeling heavy and did someone just turn off a few lights? He quickly forgot he was supposed to say something, and then he felt a sharp pain on the tip of his finger. Looking down, he saw a scarlet droplet idly standing there, right at the tip of the middle finger of his other hand, the one he wasn’t so tightly forcing to hold in a fi-, oh shit. When had he let go? He closed the fist again.

“John, focus. Why don’t we use our thumbs to find someone’s vein?” Sherlock repeated, louder and more assertive this time.

“Because if we use our thumbs we will feel our own pulse.” John let out without even noticing. And that was probably the right answer because there was no other sharp pain on his fingers and the lights seemed brighter suddenly.

“Take a deep breath.”

John complied instantly, feeling the pad of Sherlock’s finger tapping on a particular spot.

It was feeling as if someone was turning off the lights again until he felt pain again, insertion. He held his breath, looking at the ceiling but not seeing anything.

For a second all he could see was black, even though his eyes were open. When his vision came back, it brought words with it.

“Open the fist.”

John readily let go, closing his eyes, feeling the slight sting of the needle and dare he say, something being sucked out of him. A lot of things passed his mind but he couldn’t really hold anything there, it felt like trying to keep water in his grip. The one thing he could hold there was that he had to stay still so not to puncture a vein. He heard rustling of clothing, then of something slick and then it was all blank.

He woke up in his bed with circular marks on his neck that he assumed came from sleeping on something Sherlock left on his bed at one point and he never saw. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this with RainyMood and Claire de Lune on repeat for close to four hours. It may give you a different feel if you read it while you listen to it.

Sherlock watched the army doctor clad in his t-shirt and boxers sluggishly make his way downstairs while he was seated on his chair. It was a little after noon. He had changed into his pajamas at long last, now in his usual attire of pajama bottoms, a t-shirt and his dressing gown that perhaps needed cleaning one day or another, but not today.

John’s memory of last night was quite hazy, he couldn’t be sure if it was a dream or not and how he should feel if it had been a dream. Or how he should feel if it hadn’t. He still felt overtired and like he couldn’t really concentrate on anything. Maybe like a bad hangover.

“So, you…changed your clothes.” John stated, holding his temple with a hand, eyes narrowed and eyelids heavy.

Sherlock didn’t look up from the newspaper he was holding. “Yes.” He replied simply. “It was making Mrs. Hudson uncomfortable.”

John breathed out, the light hurt his eyes. Why the hell was he so damn tired all of a sudden? Maybe the fact that he hadn’t really moved a lot in the last few days was getting to him. Maybe it was all the stress he was keeping inside. And anger. And undoubtedly many other things. Or perhaps he was just simply getting sick, which he would’ve have normally replied with ‘I haven’t even gone out’ but then again, he didn’t have to go out to get ill if Sherlock was inside with him, which was kind of scary. He did trust the man with his life but didn’t trust him not to create a pandemic if he was bored enough to do so.

“Right, I’ll…make some tea…then.” John muttered, only a second later remembering how much tea he had the day before. He absently ran his hands over the marks he felt on his neck, it hadn’t occurred to him to look at them from the mirror, as he was still barely keeping awake.

“I poured you a mug as I was finishing with the experiment, I believe it’s still warm. If not, feel free to reheat it.”

John opened his mouth, and then closed it, shaking his head as he reached for it. His fingers wrapped around the handle, he closed his palm around the body. It was drinkable.

“Sure it’s safe? And-…hang on-…Sherlock, did you really use all the tea? Even the ones that…that weren’t bought for the experiment?” His tongue felt too big for his mouth. He was sure it wasn’t following every order he was giving it.

Sherlock looked up at him this time.

“That really is unimportant. You have your tea now. I’m sure if you ask nicely Mrs. Hudson will supply you with tea until we get more.”

John shook his head lightly. “No, I-…I don’t think I want any tea right now.”

Before he realized it, Sherlock disappeared from his vision and as quickly as he disappeared, his hands appeared in front of his chest. Then his presence was completed with the feel of his chest pressed to John’s back. The mug got taken away from him gently. The doctor looked at his open and empty hands stupidly. The mug was still in front of him, held the hand of his flatmate.

“Drink it, John.”

John whined softly and closed his eyes. He doubted his system would take in any more tea. “No, Sherlock, I reall-“

The mug was at his lips. Sherlock started tilting it, making the warm liquid his touch his bottom lip.

“Drink it.”

John opened his eyes, keeping them half lidded and for a second his brain couldn’t find any reason for him to not drink the tea. His lips parted on their own accord. Breathing out slowly, feeling the liquid that should’ve been hot but wasn’t starting to fill his mouth, enveloping and stroking his tongue, he started to tilt his head back as Sherlock also tilted the mug. As the double movement progressed some of the liquid started to dribble from the corner of his lips, trailing down his jaw and meeting at his chin. The mug was pulled back a hand closed his lips, and then touched his neck- no, caressed it.

If Sherlock had been a mug of tea, he would have been a steaming one.

The voice was in his ear now. “Swallow it.” It rumbled. John heard the words stretch out and bounce off the walls of his mind, dancing and circling until they made absolutely no sense. John moved the liquid around his mouth until it wasn’t as hot anymore but a lukewarm gulp of bitter tea that was coating his mouth with a bitter aftertaste.

“Swallow.” The fingers traced his Adam’s apple.

And John did. The fingers moved with the bob that was caused with the act.

Until there was no more left in the mug, the strange ritual was repeated. All of the slightly bitter liquid went down his esophagus and reached his stomach in eight seconds.

John lifted a hand, spreading his fingers over his stomach while he closed his eyes slowly. Everything started feeling like silk against his skin again. Smooth, rich, making the tips of his fingers want to trace circles on his t-shirt until it ached from moving. When he started to come back to his senses, he noticed he was sitting on something. Something warm. Something that was moving, breathing and was most definitely alive.

His legs were spread wide, a pair of cloth-covered legs in between his own stood out, catching his eye minutely. He opened his mouth to say something, because he knew that shouldn’t be happening but his brain refused to provide him with information other than that. There was a chest pressed to his back, a chin on his shoulder; he could see his own chair from where he was, straight ahead. Two hands moved on his chest, stroking almost what could be clled affection. He had to let his head fall back down because he couldn’t keep it up any longer. The big hands trailed down lazily and stroked the inside of his thighs; it made him open his mouth and mewl. Steadily he was feeling as if something was clogging up his breathing, as if something was stuck in his throat; his lungs burned a little. The tea was gone but the bitter smell lingered in his nostrils and the off-putting aftertaste lingered.

“Sh’l-”

Two fingers entered his mouth with a slick sound, sliding between his teeth and alarmingly close to his throat at first, before withdrawing halfway. It was pathetic how easy his mouth fell apart for the intrusion that he didn’t know the source of. The long fingers stroked his tongue with their pads, getting a good feel of the texture. They moved as if they wanted to make a map of the personalized bumps and scars on the surface of John’s tongue. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him.

His chest was rising and falling in time with the man that had him in his lap. There was something thick covering his throat, making it harder for him to swallow and perhaps even talk, but John had no desire to talk right now. Words seemed absolutely useless right now. Sounds that created letters that created words that created sentences. Endless combinations. And none of them, _none of them_ , qualified for what John wanted to exit his mouth and to be heard.

The fingers swirled in his mouth before they thrust themselves in and out for a number of times John couldn’t quite register. He wasn’t trying, to be honest. It had a sort of pleasant feeling to it. John didn’t need to do anything but idly stand there and let it go on. He just kept his mouth open, hearing a whine emitting from his throat when he felt more fingers entering his mouth. Too many fingers. When they left his mouth, they stroked down his jaw, then to his neck, leaving a trail of John’s saliva as they went. The coldness that came with the spit drying made him shiver with his lips parted, back arched. His muscles convulsed with no reason.

A nose nuzzled the back of his ear and something inside John’s body trembled. He suddenly felt exposed.

“It’s okay John. Just relax.”

He felt curls at the back and side of his head; it felt like a pillow, like a cloud. He wanted to rub his cheek against it, but at the same time, he wanted to tilt his head sideways, to press his ear to his own shoulder so the mouth couldn’t access the sensitive spots on the side of his neck and at the back of his ear.

A thumb ran down his perineum over his boxers, stroking, and then applying gentle force right under his balls so expertly that all the sensation on John’s body shifted lower in a split second. The doctor squeezed his eyes and whimpered lightly, the tips of the fingers wet up and down. Something curled in his abdomen, his toes tingled, they couldn’t exactly reach the floor but his big toes brushed occasionally to the hardwood down below. It was both irritating and liberating. The only thing grounding him was the body that was underneath him. He curled his toes, it felt as if he was hovering.

“She-…ck.” He swallowed in between the word. He didn’t know why but his mind was making him utter that particular word. The only word that passed his mind, like a slideshow that he wasn’t paying attention to. Sherlock. Sherlock was the one underneath him. But then who did the hands belong to?

“What’re y’doin’ t’me? I don’t-…I need to…” _To speak, to let the words out of my mouth_. His mind was suddenly filled with the information that he couldn’t move. A part of his mind told him to scream and punch whatever the hell was keeping him there. He couldn’t breath from his nose anymore and only used his mouth resulting his breath to wheeze in and out of his throat. His teeth and the muscles on his thighs clenched, he let out an annoyed grunt because things kept entering and then exiting his mind as quickly as they came. Still it passed.

**_Slide I_ **

_Sherlock._

**_Slide II_ **

_Sherlock._

**_Slide III_ **

_Sherlock._

**_Slide IV_ **

_Sherlock._

**_Slide V_ **

_Sherlock._

He felt hot, like he had a fever. He was sweating.

“You need to relax.”

And for a few seconds John’s mind agreed, agreed and agreed until everything inside welcomed the company. Like his mind was just cleansed and he was brought to the top of the world on a silver tray where everything was good and okay and beautiful.

His eyes opened, he stared at the ceiling thinking about how what his arse was located on didn’t feel firm enough to be human. It felt…squishy. And it wavered. There were lines of it, thick streaks, it tickled. There was more than one. His lips felt incredibly dry when he opened his mouth and noticed they slightly chapped. He breathed out and it was unwillingly accompanied by an incomprehensible noise making its way out of his throat, his mind was trying to protest slightly. John was, or had been, a soldier and something wrong was going on.

Or was it.

John opened his mouth to speak but instead, he felt Sherlock’s hand come over his forehead to pull back until his head was tilted, the back of his head touched Sherlock’s shoulder, mouth gaping open. He was sure his face glistened with sweat. The muscles just under the back of his elbows quivered as his hands clenched at the sides of the chair. He was being manhandled and every few seconds he was noticing that he had to be reacting adversely but then forgetting it all over again. He struggled so hard to keep himself conscious, feeling it slipping from his fingers in a way that deep down scared him. Utterly terrified him. His heart clenched. He wanted to weep because he just couldn’t keep control no matter how hard he tried. He felt the corners of his eyes go wet. Everything was shifting. Nothing was stable.

A second later, John saw something lowering itself down to him, a…a wiggly-…an…an appendage of sorts. It was alive, it _moved_. The tip of it was shiny, slick and a dark, vibrant ruby. John let out a whining sound, feeling his back arch and the cut on his chest that was still healing sting before all sounds he was making were cut off by the said appendage pushing itself in his mouth. John felt underwater for few moments; he heard a ringing in his ear. It was filling everything, every nook and cranny. He couldn’t close his mouth or spit it out but he could feel the muscles of it- as a doctor he was intrigued to say the least even in his barely conscious state. The breaths he was taking, now from his nose, were noisy and sharp, making John notice he was breathing and also making him having to control his breathing now. The appendage quivered and started secreting a strange thick fluid that filled John’s mouth so quickly that he couldn’t help but swallow it down almost instantly as it came. His tongue burned slightly, so did his chest from the strong scent, it smelled both sweet and peppery. He felt a wave of convulsing rolling from his stomach to his legs. It was bittersweet, but not disgusting. Not at all, actually. It was a bodily fluid and John had stopped being disgusted by anything that came from a body long ago.

When he swallowed, the appendage stroked his tongue as if saying ‘good boy’. John lifted his tongue heavily, feeling the texture of the limb that seemed so fond of him. He heard a small groan from somewhere he didn’t understand. When he stroked it again he confirmed it, it was flesh. What struck John was that it wasn’t firm enough, and was too slick to be one that is usually outside and in contact with oxygen but it was flesh. The very tip of it was smooth, however as he reached downward to feel more of its length with his tongue, he noticed small circles sucking at the surface. He was feeling much more awake now. He still couldn’t grab anything that passed his mind because now they were too fast and all related to his senses. The word _Sherlock_ still chanted somewhere, in a dark corner of his mind where he’ll think to look only when he’s alone, the room is and it’s raining heavily.

Tilting his nose, smelt store bought liquid soap, chemicals, and the bitter smell that was still somewhat lingering but much less. His eyes were now wide open, as wide as they went. His breathing was still fast but more importantly his heart was a lot faster than he realized before, beating against his chest like he just drank a double shot of espresso in five seconds. He was very aware that a warm and big hand was between his legs. The long, thin fingers were over his balls and his shaft while the thumb lazily stroked his tip over his boxers, it pleasantly burned wherever they touched. John had no idea when he had become hard but right now, he felt heat coiled in his stomach so tight that he knew he normallyshould’ve had _climaxed_ by now _._ His hips wet forward aimlessly, his body clenched for a few times without any reason. He felt all of the hair on his body stand on end.

The tip of his cock was wet, leaking, and the breath he felt on his ear was just as rapid as his own. The ruby appendage traced his lips slowly a few times, making them moist and in return John parted his lips to lick the end of it. Whatever he had swallowed, it wasn’t hurting him even thought where the viscous fluid passed in his throat tingled still, like whiskey. Then he felt a tongue dragging it’s way up to the back of his ear from his neck and he couldn’t do anything but let out a stuttering moan, feeling his balls draw up a little, feeling as if something was gripping his genitals tightly in the best way possible.

The two hands went on his belly, pulling up the hem of his t-shirt up-…but at the same time John felt his legs be pulled apart even further. Hang on, if the hands were on his shirt then-.

He managed to look at his legs, seeing two more ruby appendages wrapping themselves around his thighs, pulling his legs, opening him, and presenting him to the world. Now he could see the entirety of them. These appendages were definitely larger and thicker. They started out ruby red at the tip, then as they progressed they went dark rose, red-violet, indigo and at last, finished with a lovely shade of night blue. The insides were mauve, the tops of the little ringlets on the surface were amber; the sparkling made them look like gold. The suckers tickled John’s skin, making him squirm but he quickly learned that if he squirmed, they would tighten, perhaps even painfully.

John’s lips remained parted as he watched them wriggle and move with such grace and strength. So agile, mischievous, cunning and sly. He only came back when the smaller and thinner one around his mouth touched his nose softly before wiping at the dip of his mouth. It tickled John’s nose and only then, when he wanted to raise his hands to itch himself, he noticed his wrists were also bound, two more appendages tightly coiled around his wrists, keeping them on his sides.

John took in a shaky breath but he was okay, he was fine, okay, fine, _okay_. He wasn’t panicking. He saw another one start to wrap around his waist, momentarily squeezing him a little too roughly. He did panic then. His whole body was vibrating and he just couldn’t _move_.

And that reminded him of watching so may soldiers die right under his nose whilst he could do absolutely nothing about it but tell them they’ve done their job. That was what someone who was dying wanted to hear. That they accomplished _something_ , something big, perhaps the reason why they were born in the first place. What better way to die than dying for your country? At least John could heartily point out that _actually_ dying for you country was better than _almost_ dying for your country.

He was pulled back when Sherlock’s nose rested on the shell of his left ear, his mouth just where he needed to be to whisper to John. Sherlock held him in a way that he felt that the detective was _everywhere_ , filling everywhere, seeping into the crevices of his innermost dark corners that were filled with cracks that one day may become holes. 

_“You taste so delicious, John. It’s all right; I’ve got you now. I’ve got you. No one else will ever get you again.”_

And whatever that meant, it soothed John and he relaxed but the grips were still tight around him in a nearly alarming way. An appendage- well, tentacle, curled around the hem of his shirt and brought it to his mouth, trying to push the fabric past his lips and teeth, push it inside. John readily bit down on the fabric and as a reward; the tentacle stroked his cheekbone, the thinner one now dragging itself along the exposed skin of John’s stomach and chest. He felt cold. The other tentacle was squishy but not as slick as the one that had been in his mouth.

The body under him, a vibrating cello, made such noises that John wanted to rub himself against it so he could vibrate along, his cock twitched in sympathy. His body was melted butter on top of a body that was melted chocolate. They were mingling to create the most delicious and sinful mixture.

Thumbs hooked on the waistband of John’s boxers, pulling them down slightly to reveal the start of the trimmed pubic hair that was darker than the hair on his head. John, now almost flat and arching his back a little in an exposed way, could see his chest rise and fall quickly despite having relaxed. His hips raised, the tip of his cock brushed against the seam of his underwear, making him writhe and try to cant his hips forward.

He idly watched the left hand dip inside while the thumb of the other kept the garment softly pulled down. He let his back touch the stomach of the body under him which now felt scalding hot. The thumb remained over his base but the other fingers went under his balls, rubbing at the underside and pressing on his perineum in a way that made John let out a broken moan. The doctor tilted his head back and took a sharp breath, feeling as the sensations overtake him.

 _Tease_.

It felt as though the hands were exploring and memorizing his body, rather than bringing him pleasure but if felt _improbable_ and _outrageous_ all the same.

The thumb and index finger pressed John’s cock and balls together, both of them making a stroking motion before they cupped his balls. The pad of the thumb ran down his shaft, pulling down, tugging at the foreskin. John wanted to thrust forward, thrust forward and forward until he burst but he didn’t know if he could and he didn’t know if we wanted to know if he could.

“Look at me, John.”  Fingers-… _Sherlock’s_ fingers, thumb and index of the-… _his_ other hand made him turn his face towards him. The doctor dropped the grip he had on the hem of his t-shirt with his teeth; it bunched up over his upper chest. Sherlock huddled the quivering mess on his lap, his flatmate, his companion, his friend and now just _his_.

The mess took in a shuddering breath. It was _Sherlock_. _He_ was doing all of this. John looked at him with half lidded eyes and a parted mouth; the expression on Sherlock’s face was a mix of raw lust with an aching need and an odd determination, possessiveness, a sort of intense self-control that was forcing its limits. Sherlock made their foreheads touch and noses clumsily bump into each other. Both of their mouths were slack open, their upper lips touched, breaths mixing in together in the air between deliciously. At long last, Sherlock tilted his head to the side and claimed, absolutely _claimed_ John’s mouth and _more_.

Two tentacles slid to his nipples, first touching them curiously and then curling around them, playing with them with the help of their suckers. John arched his back, feeling Sherlock biting onto his bottom lip, making him almost sob out of need. His cock was twitching, trying to call John’s attention to its need for friction and _release_. As their tongues slid together in an incredibly messy kiss that had a lot of bodily fluids involved in it, it struck John that Sherlock was hydrochloric acid to his pepsinogen. John’s pepsinogen, stored inactive to keep them from breaking his body apart, was now fueled and activated with the hydrochloric acid that was Sherlock and he felt himself come undone; he started to feel the bonds between his particles, bonds that kept him together, disappear as Sherlock broke him down to what he was made of.

Sherlock kept both his hands on his upper stomach and John felt the weight of them, spread out, adoring. Four tentacles were still keeping his hands and legs tightly in place but they were long forgotten now. The thinner one alongside another one pulled down at his boxers, letting them stay around his thighs, pulling them down until the waistband was snug under his balls. He swallowed at the contact and absolutely shuddered as the thinner one slid from the side of cock to down his perineum. The suckers made his muscles tremble and clench. He gasped for air when it started to wriggle between his cheeks, seeking out something, John knew exactly what and he couldn’t decide how he felt about it.

The tentacles wrapped around his legs pulled them tighter apart but the boxers were not letting them, so they pulled harder and the outside of John’s thighs hurt from the pressure until the clothing ripped from the seams with a noise. Marks appeared on his forelegs that throbbed, his cock bobbed aimlessly from the momentum and now his hole was exposed for the thin tentacle to start prodding, start to claim. John wriggled, his hips bucked forward with want and confusion.

He gave a hearty cry when the thinner but not inconsiderable sized tentacle (that also thickened as it went) slid inside while the other tentacle coiled around both his cock and balls, squeezing deliciously.

A whimper got stuck in his throat that now was hoarse; he felt a hot breath and teeth on his left earlobe.

“That’s my hectocotylus. Feel that John? Can you feel it going inside you?” The voice came out, husky.

John could definitely feel it. He made fists with his hands, pulling at the tentacles as he tried to lift them, pleasure and pain mingling together spiking through him, like blood dripping in melted chocolate.

John’s back arched completely and even a little painfully when the tentacle slid inside even more, secreting a slickness that started to dribble down his thighs, some droplets making their way to the back of his knees and down his calves. John felt absolutely filthy and he was absolutely getting off on it. He could feel the suckers of the tentacle touching his premium and he just about howled with pleasure when they full on touched his balls. His hips went forward with a lot of force but his body was strangely not letting him come, the pleasure was just building up in a way John had never felt before, it was very nearly overwhelming and painful, like the battlefield.

Sex would never, ever be this good again.

A tentacle pushed in his mouth as the thin tentacle pulled back, making an obscene and wet noise. John groaned, squeezing his eyes, wrapping his tongue around the ruby appendage, lapping at it, suckling on it even. The thin one pushed in harshly, making John’s body go back with the sheer force of it. Sherlock’s hands were all over his chest, unable to find a spot that they wanted to rest at. The detective was making noises that were completely wrecked; the back of his heels rubbing against the hardwood floor while the rest of his feet pointed up. He moved them up and down, as if he was trying to walk, scrambling for purchase, trying to keep the handful of trembling delicacy on his lap huddled and controlled.

When the tentacle twisted and curiously started to rub around without any mercy at all, John’s mouth gaped open and just before the tentacle that was previously in his mouth slid in his mouth once again, a sob that scratched his throat painfully rolled out of his mouth. His balls ached as if there were rubber bands around them. He felt the corner of his eyes go wet again, now from an entirely different reason. He was on fire. He felt as if every nerve ending was asking for him to feed them. John wanted to weep out of pleasure. John wanted to weep because of the fact that _this_ gave him pleasure.

If John had been a violin, Sherlock would have had precisely ten limbs to make him flutter, reverberate and pulsate. John would resonate and echo down the corridors until everyone knew he unconditionally and undoubtedly were at his hands meaning only he could make him sing just right- and without Sherlock, John would be a useless piece of fancy wood and cat guts that cost too much to make and cost even more to buy.

Sherlock’s trembling tongue was back on his neck again, making John feel the bumps and texture of it. He cherished it. He even felt a tear roll down his cheek.

“Sherlo-“ He squeezed his eyes and swallowed at the last second.

“I-….I kn-…know, John… _I know_.”

John had no idea, as a doctor, that the human body could register this many sensations at the same time.

A tentacle that was slightly odd shaped and had slightly sharp looking ridges at the corner came up and rested on his stomach, stroking, sliding up as the thinner one fell into a painful and gratifying rhythm, touching his prostate so lightly that he wanted to scream. He was actually feeling as if he was reaching another limit, like a double orgasm, maybe even triple was packed inside him, steadily approaching his only human body.

The weight of the tentacle on his stomach was nice, it was warm and John only noticed that something was happening other than him being throughoutly fucked by a fucking tentacle when he thought to look down and saw the tentacle that was on his stomach covered with a scarlet liquid and- no wait, it was on his stomach too- it-, there was-…John’s lips trembled and he felt a hand on his forehead again, pulling and tilting his head back so he would look at the ceiling.

“Don’t look John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded hushed, drowned, almost upset.

John felt tears start to roll down his cheeks, just a few. It didn’t hurt but now he was realizing that it stung, something caught in his throat.

His body tried to move and break free again but the thin tentacle pushed in hard, making John feel that it almost wrapped around his prostate, if that was possible. John fisted his hands, squeezing his eyes, the tears streaked down from the sides of his face, sobs and whimpers mixing in with whines and moans.

Sherlock.

He still looked down, trying to see, now seeing that there was so much more blood than when he had looked before. He could see a cut across his stomach and chest, he could see the fatty tissue of his stomach and he felt literally _open_. Sherlock’s trembling hand raised, touching the side of the cut that was over his stomach.

“Did you know that, J-…John, male octopuses die after ejaculating?”

And then he laughed but it was a sort of nervous and pathetic laughter that accompanied something stupid, manic, psychotic or all of the above.

For an unknown reason, or one that didn’t reach his mind, John’s heart throbbed.

John was absolutely horrified. For a few seconds he couldn’t feel _anything_ and when he came back it hit him like a truck. His cock was incredibly hard and he was so close to an end of some kind but he didn’t know what.

All of the tentacles were now trembling and tightening, Sherlock was making a set of vulnerable noises that made John want to hush him and make him some tea and give him hugs.

_Why are you doing this?_

He wanted to ask.

_What the fuck is all of this?_

Sherlock’s trembling fingers traced his mouth, while the other quivering hand started to dip inside him, _inside_ him, in through the cut, to touch him and his organs and _inside_. When Sherlock aimlessly pushed his fingers down both of them gasped loudly. John’s head fell back and he knew he wouldn’t be able to raise it again. His eyes remained wide-open, face absolutely pale but cock still hard and being worked by the tentacle coiled around. The pain felt relative to the pleasure and numbness. Everything mixed and turned into one another. John didn’t worry about not being able to control anymore.

“I just-“ He laughed again, too loudly, making John wince. The laugh was nervous, helpless, delirious, mad and woeful. For John, it was simply heartbreaking and prodigious at the same time.

“I mean, it’s even _funny_ now. I almost don’t even want to say it. You care so much about _everything_. And you cared about that girl, I know you did. You care about me and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Everyone you meet. It touched my heart, I have to admit. And-... now I want to touch yours.“ Sherlock went on, his voice sounding too vibrant and alive for the position he was in, obviously verging on something. He sounded like he was on coke and maybe he was- but that was very questionable. They were sweating and shaking like a leaf, the both of them.

"Call me crazy but-" He sniffed loudly, eyes welled up, his lips curled up. 

“I just wanted to see if your heart is as big as I think it is.” He finished, whispering it with laughter, tears streaming down his own face even though he was grinning like a fool. His hand jolted up inside John and his hectocotylus pushed in more than it ever had before. John was completely static as tentacles also started making inside him and he thought, quite pathetically so, as the suckers stroked his inner walls, that it was like a thousand kisses inside.

_Sherlock wanted to see-…_

Sherlock’s bloody hand went and wrapped his fingers around John’s cock instead of the tentacle and pulled, using red the slickness for his advantage.

_So so so so close._

“Together?”

_John's weapon was his heart._

The doctor opened this mouth and after a few seconds of of silence he let out a series of sounds that resembled ‘ _together_ ’ that replied the hovering question.

John Watson never left a friend hovering. He never _ever_ left a _best_ friend hovering.

Sherlock wanked him with shallow and quick jerking motions, the thin tentacle spread and curled over something. John felt ripping but the sudden pleasure that took through his body along with the sensation of Sherlock quite literally  _touching his heart_ with his elegant hands of an artist that he wasn't even sure was really happening and replaced agony and the tears, and it was so grand that he completely relaxed, feeling _everywhere_ go slick and _everywhere_ go _Sherlock._

_If only Moriarty had realized how much Sherlock would go for a heart._

As though it was the ghost of his tentacles that slid inside and curled around him when they first met, John now eternally was wrapped with him, eternally his, like it should be.

He felt the body of the detective start to relax while he mewled and moaned out of the sheer pleasure, John breathed out. The suckers, still moving lazily, inevitable sucked the essence out of John and he thought, _what a sweet way to perish._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Sherlock's not all octopus but I'd like to think that they both died at the same time. Whatever floats your boat.


End file.
